


Ain't Misbehavin'

by rispacooper



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 01:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-COTW. Ray's in Chicago all alone and doesn't want to think about why. Which totally means he's thinking about why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't Misbehavin'

There was a knock at the door again. Of course there was a knock at the door again. He knew what it was—or at least who it was—before he swung it open, and the guy in the brown shorts didn’t seem too surprised to see him either.

He signed for the thing without actually looking at the paper, but the guy didn’t give him any grief about it, which could’ve been for the glare Ray gave him before he turned back inside but which a small voice insisted was really because he’d seen Ray’s hand shaking when he’d grabbed the pen.

Dead of winter and the guy was still wearing shorts. Ray slammed the door more than shut it firmly, which was going to piss off his landlady more than the sound of his dancing did, but Ray only shivered at the draft of cold air and tossed his head defiantly. She could go right on and complain, just go right on and add it to the pile of crap he’d already taken from Dewey, Welsh, and Frannie about his attitude.

He had the heater going full blast and still he was shivering, and it was suddenly like he’d never been through a Chicago winter before, he was so cold all the time, cold to his bones even inside the apartment. He woke up with it sometimes, aching and stiff, his neck bent all out of whack from passing out on the couch, his fingers red, frozen icicles on the cushion.

The skin was cracked too, cracked like people got traveling up where the sun doesn’t set, fractures in the dead skin along his hands forming and splintering, like maybe he was frozen all the way through after falling through that ice, and he might shatter.

Stepping from the door didn’t make him warmer, but it brought him to the kitchen, and he set the large, square package down on the counter beside his coffee maker, pausing to glare at the unopened can of decaf sitting there next to it.

What kind of person drank decaf? Ray might be a lot of things, like a reject from Canada, and a reject from marriage, or a reject Vecchio, but he wasn’t some decaf drinking weirdo. He loved caffeine, he lived for it, and when his hands wanted to cling to the carefully wrapped parcel he forced them over to his coffee mug and swallowed a burning mouthful.

The second pot today, and other than having to pee too much, he couldn’t feel anything from it; exhaustion was still tugging at his eyelids and his arms and legs still felt thick and heavy, so bad he just wanted to sit down.

Rest, that’s what had been ordered, by doctors with concerned faces, rest and fun somewhere warm, somewhere not there, and maybe it hadn’t mattered after all. He’d stayed as long as he could, his skinny butt nothing but trouble, his cough getting so bad that even Fraser hadn’t been able to pretend it wasn’t something serious and Fraser was a champ at pretending.

They’d been lucky to reach a doctor in time, that’s what Fraser had said, fortunate, was the word he’d used and a few other big ones, standing at the doorway of Ray’s hospital room, and for all Ray knew he’d meant it; Fraser had been arranging flights back to the States for him that afternoon, not listening to one damn word about the Hand of Franklin or quests, leaving Ray to argue with him at the top of his lungs. Which, with the pneumonia, wasn’t even close to loud, but enough to set him off coughing again while watching Fraser’s lips thin before he excused himself from the room, from his life, whatever.

Another two weeks in that stupid bed with the fever and the chest pains and he still wasn’t sure that that they had ever started out on their adventure at all. Maybe he’d been sick ever since falling into the crevasse, or since catching Muldoon, maybe he’d dreamed sharing a small tent with Fraser, lying next to him too tired to even listen to Fraser’s slow breathing, curled up into a feeling of peace so deep he’d never wanted to wake up. Maybe that’s when he’d stopped breathing.

He slid a knife from a drawer and cut into the paper wrapping in one motion, holding his breath while he pulled apart the cardboard box, sinking his hands immediately into the puffy, scritchy fabric. It warmed to his touch instantly, and he couldn’t stop himself from grabbing it and yanking it free.

The coat was one of those huge things he had only ever seen explorers wear when they were climbing Everest, all big cushioned sleeves and zip ties. Ray stared at it and shook his head. No way was he wearing that. He’d get laughed off the streets, not to mention out of the bullpen. And he wouldn’t even be able to draw his gun the sleeves were so big.

He shoved it back in the box, not bothering to look for a note since he knew there wouldn’t be one.

He took another sip of coffee, then leaned against the counter to stare out at the TV even though it wasn’t on. Above the screen there was a book, the words too small for him to make out without his glasses. He knew what it said by heart anyway, even if he hadn’t once cracked it open since it had arrived back in September, two weeks before the coffee, a month before the yarn hat with the dangly thing on top that nobody in their right mind over the age of twelve would wear.

Fraser had tried to get him to wear one, on their stupid quest for Franklin, even trying to put it on Ray’s head himself, hands firm on either side of Ray’s face, snatching them back when Ray had snapped at him to quit and giving Ray the hurt eyes like it hadn’t been just a dumb hat.

September, two months after being home and out of the hospital. Two months since he’d last laid eyes on Fraser, and his first day back at work, even if he had been ordered to stay on phones in the bullpen.

 _Illinois Legal Statutes: Tenth Edition_. Like Ray had somehow forgotten the law during the months he’d spent in Canada. Like Fraser imagined Ray was down here beating in the heads of every suspect he ran across just because Fraser wasn’t here to keep an eye on him. He’d worked just fine without a partner before Fraser and he was working just fine without Fraser now, whatever Welsh had to say about it. And he’d beat Frannie’s head in if she said one more soft word about counseling, even if she was getting close to her due date and glowing so much she could have been made from sunshine.

Ray ducked his head and stared at the black and red of the coat. Then he left it where it was and went into the other room, cranking up the radio real loud and forcing his heavy feet through a rhumba. He barely lost his breath this time.

Five months and he was doing just fine.

~~~

The weather only got colder. A snap they called it on the news, like icicles in his eyelashes were the same thing as popping gum. A snap was the sound his back made, rising from the couch and heading to the shower in the dark.

Ray glowered for the weathermen as he made his way through the snow for another night of coffee and exercise and passing out the couch and when he woke up the next morning he did not think right away that it had been two weeks, and there would be another package today.

He walked without flinching to the video store and got some crap to watch while he did the paperwork he’d brought home to do on his day off, just knowing how surprised everyone would be at that. He used the pen from the stationary set that had come in October and stuffed the Illinois Law Code under his papers to use as a table while he signed form after form and then stuck them all on a chair to watch the rest of the Pink Panther movies and pick at his fingernails.

He’d just opened a beer when there was another knock at the door. Same guy, same pen, and Ray managed not to tell him to fuck off before shutting the door. Fraser would have been proud, not that Fraser was there to see it.

Maybe Fraser could fuck off, just like he had then, bundling Ray up and taking him right to the gate, his fingers skating down Ray’s arm before letting go.

“Take care of yourself, Ray,” Fraser had told him, standing in his brown tunic with his arms straight at his sides.

He should have known Fraser would have to stay in Canada the moment he had seen the weird smile on Fraser’s face at standing in the middle of an ocean of snow. Fraser had been…happy. _Happy_ , like inside he had felt the same peace Ray had dreamed he’d felt in that tent. Happy like he wasn’t down here. And it wasn’t like Ray could stay there, not without a good reason, not even if he’d been well. So Fraser had shrugged and looked at Ray’s shoes and said goodbye.

Inside this box were cans of food. Vegetables mostly, dehydrated noodles and tins of beans. The kind of food people would eat on an adventure across some wild territory. The kind of food it took only minutes to make, that a guy like Ray could even cook if he was well enough.

He wasn’t some idiot here. He could feed himself, even without Benton Fraser around to make sure he shoveled the food in his face. If he was thinner than he was before, than it wasn’t any of Fraser’s goddamn business. Fraser had made that clear, not even writing from whatever the hell post he was in up there freezing his nuts off.

Ray put down his beer and grabbed the can resting untouched by his coffee maker. Five months and two weeks and he could have run a mile no matter what the wind chill was today, not that Fraser cared. If he’d cared, he would have called, or written, or something.

~~~

Two weeks after that and he’d made himself go the gym only to get there and realize that it was close to Christmas. The place was deserted, the doors locked, and Ray had turned around to go back home, thinking as he drove too fast on the icy streets that he was going to ask Welsh to give him a different day off, no more of this waiting around for boxes from Canada shit.

He reached the door the same time as Brown Shorts was getting ready to leave, only he was Brown Pants today, as if he had finally gotten cold enough for the guy to dress like an adult. He gave Ray’s red and black jacket a once-ever and added a smirk for good measure and this time Ray did tell him to fuck off. He added a finger just for the hell of it, after he’d signed the form.

There were two packages propped against the door when he looked up from that, forcing him to pick them up if he wanted to get inside. He heaved them both in and dropped them on the couch even if one of them was marked “Fragile.”

Fraser was going to go broke, sending all this crap from…wherever he was now. If Ray had known where he was, other than the general address on the tracking labels for the RCMP headquarters, he might have written back, just to tell him not to freaking bother. But Ray didn’t like the idea of a letter to Fraser floating around through some office before it got forwarded on to some outpost. So Fraser could go right ahead and spend his last dime on coats and canned food. He probably sent Vecchio books on Florida law and cases of ugly ties. He’d probably said goodbye to Vecchio just the same way, his shoulders back and straight, his face pale and his eyes too bright, his voice dropping to call Ray back before Ray had really turned around, his hands reaching out…

Warmth. That’s all he’d been able to think, his body swimming with heat suddenly after too long in the cold. Like breathing underwater. Mouth. Fraser’s mouth moving gently over his, like a dream, like a memory. Lips and tongue and holy shit, Fraser, Fraser kissing him, kissing him again because they’d done it before, hadn’t they, kissed like this, with Fraser warm and solid and already pulling away.

“Good bye, Ray,” he had said, or some bullshit, the mouth no longer kissing him moving, saying his name, and then Fraser had stepped back, and Ray had gone.

In the airport. In the goddamn airport with everyone watching, even if it was Canada. Goddamn Fraser.

Ray took a swipe at his lips and headed for the kitchen. The scent of coffee brewing took the chill from his back as he removed his coat and hung it up, and the first sip slid through his veins without leaving him shaking.

He used the knife smoothly this time, slicing through packing tape and then setting the blade to the side with a glance to the law book.

He couldn’t help it. He dug through the paper and Styrofoam peanuts in the Fragile box until his fingertips touched on the flat, rasping paper. He pulled out three records, .45s like they didn’t make anymore and he didn’t want to stop to wonder where in the hell had Fraser gotten those in the middle of nowhere.

He flipped them over, taking them from the sleeves and blinking at the names there. Kay Starr, Peggy Lee. Music from the Forties and Fifties, the kind of music best danced to on a wooden dance floor in an old ballroom somewhere, jazz harmonies and big band strumming.

Ray swallowed and carried them to the shelves along the wall, not remembering when Fraser had noticed the small turntable. He just balanced the disc and set the needle, glad his hands didn’t shake anymore.

He didn’t have to crank the volume, at the first crackle of the recording he shivered and his feet moved on their own, his arms coming up as though he was dancing with somebody in his arms. Somebody solid. Somebody warm.

Maybe in Canada nobody cared about that kind of thing. Maybe in Canada guys always kissed their partners as they said goodbye and then haunted them with care packages.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. Ray was in America now.

Six months and not a word, and Fraser was always the guy with the words. Ray swayed and closed his eyes, trying not to think about the answer to Peggy Lee’s question, except he kept thinking about those six months. If somebody’d asked him yesterday how long this had been going on, he would have said six months ago. But six months ago really wasn’t when all of this had started, even if Ray had made himself think that.

~~~

He didn’t open the other box right away, because it was two weeks to Christmas, and not even UPS delivered on Christmas.

He took it to his parent’s house and ended up keeping in the trunk of the Goat. He drove back to his place with it there too, next to Tupperware full of stuffing and ham and the bottle of scotch his dad got him as a present and the new shirts his mom bought him. He brought them all inside and dialed up the heat, before popping open the bottle and putting one of Fraser’s records on.

Then he sat down and pulled apart the cardboard that’d been open for two long weeks now and took out a small square wrapped in tissue paper.

His hands shook again though he hadn’t had a sip of caffeine since this morning so he tore through the paper then stared for a while at the glossy picture of Dief in the plain wooden frame. Fraser made the frame, Ray could tell just from touching it, but he didn’t want to think about that, and just ran his thumb over the glass.

Dief had his back to the camera, probably pissed off at Fraser for something, judging from how flat his ears were. But still he was stretching to look up at the sky, which was nothing but stars so close Dief could have ate them up. Fraser had caught him in the shot before he’d howled, but Ray could almost hear it anyway. The lonely echo soared over the music, deafening him for a long moment.

He got up, pushing aside the scotch to reach for the phone, dialing a number that he knew he shouldn’t know. The phone had dust on it and smelled like beer. Ray held his breath for three rings and then huffed out an annoyed breath at the short, “Vecchio residence” on the other end.

“Look, Vecchio,” he started, only so the big-nosed clown could interrupt him.

“Kowalski, it’s Christmas, can’t you take a break from being the crazy ex-husband for the holidays?” Vecchio’s voice never even rose when he said crap like that, which was one more reason for Ray to hate him. He slammed a hand into the wall because he could take care of himself even without Fraser and because he hadn’t called Stella in almost a year. Which maybe Vecchio knew, because that was all he bothered to say, like he just said hello.

Ray snarled and pressed his fingers to his mouth before he could speak.

“I…Listen, Vecchio, you son of a… I actually didn’t call to talk to Stella.” The words were strange for a second and Ray closed his eyes, letting himself be soothed by the sounds of the torch songs Fraser bought for him. He must have played the records every second he’d been home for the past weeks and each time they still made him sigh and sway in a sort of restless dream. “I needed…I wanted to talk about Fraser.”

“Benny?” The name always made Ray grit his teeth and want to punch something, but not nearly as much as he did when Vecchio went on. “We got a letter from him a few days ago. Pages and pages of snow and hunts and local delinquents stirring up trouble. The usual.”

His hand throbbed, and Ray opened his eyes to study his wall, as cracked as the skin over his knuckles. Ruptured, now there’s a Fraser word. Fractured, but not shattered yet.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, his voice too small and moved the phone from his ear. The music ain’t working anymore, all he could think was _pages and pages_.

“Kowalski!” Vecchio’s shout made him bring it back, almost, but Vecchio was pretty loud for a horse’s ass, and Ray could still hear him, tinny and worried, no matter how much he wished he couldn’t. “Something’s wrong, isn’t there? I should’ve known. Benny always hides behind the words.”

“What?” Ray asked and then brought the phone back to his mouth too late.

“Shit.” Vecchio dropped his voice like maybe Stella was there and then said real loud, “Merry Christmas, and remind Ma we’ll be visiting in a few weeks,” before he hung up.

The dial tone gave way to the recorded voice of the operator before Ray remembered to hang up too. The record skipped to a stop at same time, and he walked over with a frown, flipping it to the other side and resetting the needle.

His feet moved, carrying him back to the space he had cleared for dancing, but he stopped and grabbed the stationary set instead. He had to dig in the couch for the pen, and then he fell down on it, listening to Kay sing her heart out and knowing exactly how she was feeling.

His chest hurt, like all of the sudden he couldn’t breathe again, and his fingers had trouble with the pen.

Six months, and if Fraser couldn’t manage the words, Ray didn’t think he would do any better. He might as well write a song while he was at it.

~~~

Ray closed the door behind him in a hurry, shoving hard to do it with the wind fighting him. He swept his hat off the second he turned the lock and used his teeth to yank off the mittens he’d given in and bought three days ago, tossing out his thin leather driving gloves. It wasn’t like anyone was enjoying seeing him shiver. It wasn’t like he enjoyed it either, so if he looked like a weirdo at least he was a warm weirdo. And Frannie said the hat with the dangly thing was a really flattering shade of blue for his eyes, though her hormones could have been playing tricks on her mind, since a minute before that she’d been trying to talk Welsh into doing Lamaze to lower his blood pressure.

Personally, he thought Welsh could use it. He almost smiled just thinking about the look Welsh had given him for agreeing with her, then scratched at his head. Fraser would like that story. That’s the kind of thing that people wrote to friends who were far away that they missed. The same way he could tell Fraser about the three teenagers he brought in on New Year’s for selling some other kids marijuana, which turned out to be rosemary or oregano or something that Fraser would have known with one sniff. Selling spices wasn’t illegal, but he’d wanted to scare them and it seemed better than kicking them in their heads. Fraser might like that story too, justice and community and all that.

It had been almost two weeks, almost two weeks since Ray had sent his letter, which meant it was too soon for another one.

He turned up the heat and slid free of the coat on the way to the kitchen. There was an eggroll in the fridge that he ate cold while standing in front of the vent. He took his heat where and when he could get it.

The apartment was quiet. Ray hummed around a mouthful of cabbage and headed to the shelf. When he got a new hat he was going to have find a record store that still sold these old albums, but for now these would do.

He kept it on, but low, and stepped carefully over the steps marked on the ground. He thought about bouncing out a few steps, but the song was a slow one. He chewed up the last bite of grease and pork instead and then went still at the knock on the door.

It was early. Way too early, and Fraser was regular like clockwork, sending his gifts every two weeks like he was counting the days.

Ray swallowed and went to the door. His fingers slipped on the doorknob like he’d never used one before so he left them there and put his face to the door without peeking through the peephole.

There was another knock, no surprise since he had music playing.

His paint job was chipping. Ray made a face and tried to pull in a breath, ignoring the tight band around his chest. He was imagining it. It was all in his head, he knew it. Even Welsh knew it.

Hell, Frannie probably knew it too, which meant the whole clan of Vecchios had talked all about it by now. And still they’d had him over for dinner on Sunday. That was something to think about later when he wasn’t dying anymore.

His face felt hot, his body sweaty, shaky. Ray leaned against the door and inhaled sharply, trying not to be sick.

He licked grease from his mouth and on the other side of the door Fraser sighed.

“Ray?” he asked politely, quietly, and Ray tore at the lock and the wind did the rest, the door almost hitting him except he was sliding around it and dancing forward and then oh god Fraser was in his arms and he was kissing Fraser’s mouth. Fraser’s mouth. Under his, right in the doorway, and Fraser warm and solid in his arms and kissing him back until the chills were up and down his spine and he was hot enough he should have melted and still he pressed back. Fraser had to know everything, learn everything, and he wanted all of it. It was so hard to be good, and Fraser had to know that too, did know it, his lips wet and salty.

Maybe Fraser was in brown or red. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe Fraser was skinnier than he should have been and maybe he had shadows under his eyes to match Ray’s. Maybe Fraser was clutching a piece of paper in his unsteady hand with Ray’s writing all over it. So what? None of that crap mattered. Ray tore his face away to stare at Fraser’s shoulder, and breathed in, long and deep, listening when Fraser did the same. It was…like he was somewhere new for the first time, like they could have been the same person, sharing the same breath.

He closed his eyes and Fraser said his name for the second time, angling his head for the kind of quick kiss a guy gave on a first date, which was good considering they were on his stoop and bad because it was too short. But Ray just resettled himself against Fraser’s shoulder and stared at the letter Fraser still had crumpled in one hand. It made him smile a little to know that Fraser had kept it.

Fraser nodded. Like he knew all of that, and he was fine with it, fine with Ray, fine with them staying like this forever, two guys holding each other in the freezing winter weather and smiling at nothing. They drifted, Ray moving them to the strains of the old music and not once shivering at the cold.

There was a weird feeling in his stomach, spreading out through his chest and his arms and as he breathed out he thought, this is harmony, this is serenity, and that was another Fraser word, but that was okay too.

Sometimes words could save a guy a lot of time.


End file.
